As the group reached the stairs and no one shouted from behind to stop them, Sophie relaxed fractionally. She maneuvered herself so that she remained with the painting on one side, the wall on the other, and just ahead of the young officer. If the sergeant was still watching, the officer would provide a modicum of cover.

They climbed the stairs and made their way to the Imperial Suite. Along the way, they passed other uniformed men, many greeting Estelle by name and asking after her health, and two asking if the wrapped painting the Ritz employees still carried was another treasure for Göring. Whatever Estelle had been doing to integrate herself with the occupants of the Ritz, she had done it well. Sophie remained where she was, generally hidden by the bulky canvas.

A man in another grey field uniform met them at the door of the suite. He lacked any decoration or indication of rank on his uniform, and Sophie took him to be an aide of some sort. He had a narrow, pinched face that nevertheless managed to convey a smug, haughty expression. A magpie. That’s what Piotr used to call men like that. Loud, mean, attention-seeking birds that lorded over the scraps left by others but fled at the first sign of a challenge.

“Mademoiselle Allard. This is an unexpected surprise. I do hope you’re aware the Reichsmarschall is not in residence at the moment.” His greeting was rife with condescension.

“I’m not here to see the Reichsmarschall, Hesse. I’m here to see a painting hung in his suite in preparation for his return.”

“He told me nothing about this before he departed.”

“I cannot help that oversight,” Estelle said, sounding impatient. “Please let us in.”

“I don’t think I will,” the aide called Hesse said, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall.

“Colonel Meyer wishes—”

“I do not care what the colonel wishes, for the colonel is not here. Therefore, I will do as I wish. And I certainly do not obey the whims of a whore.” His last sentence he uttered in German.

Müller sucked in an audible breath.

Estelle’s face remained utterly blank, looking back and forth between Müller and the aide.

“It is troubling,” Sophie said, stepping forward and addressing him in German, “the disrespectful manner in which you speak to a loyal servant of the Reich.”

“Who are you?” Hesse demanded.

Sophie ignored his question. “You took the Führereid, did you not? Pledged personal loyalty to the Führer?”

“Of course I did,” he sputtered.

“Then that is troubling also. Tell me, Herr Hesse, is it self-interest or just disregard for the Reichsmarschall, and thus the Führer himself, that arouses such disrespect?”

The aide pushed himself off the wall. “How dare you—”